I'd send a postcard to you, dear
by Taisi
Summary: It hurt to make believe in a happy ending that didn't exist, but it was also a little less lonely, imagining Papyrus was away on some grand adventure. Imagining he might come home someday. (In which Papyrus is gone, and Sans doesn't deal. Post-neutral ending, threeshot.)
1. Part 1

A/N: Based on one of the endings of Undertale, where Papyrus is the only character who dies, and Sans moves into the ruins with Toriel and keeps the world of grief he's going through a secret. Also loosely inspired by a story on AO3 titled "Life Goes On," by Asidian (which I _highly_ recommend, if you don't mind your feels breaking).

* * *

 **1.**

Something sick slides into the pit of your stomach, something oiled and greasy and _sick,_ at the cheerful plate of smiling spaghetti she sits in front of you at dinner. You're prepared to face everything else, dodging the gentle questions, telling stories that taste like ash in your mouth, hiding the _absolutely literal_ breaking of your heart every morning that you wake up and he's gone…

But somehow— _somehow_ —you aren't prepared to face this.

"I asked around," Toriel says sweetly, her back to you as she busies herself at the stovetop, "to find out what your favorite food was! Several people told me it was hot dogs, but, I figured if you used to run a hotdog stand, _surely_ you must be at least a little… sick of…"

She's turned around and facing you, and you _hate_ yourself for the way the smile slips right off her face. Pull it _together,_ make a joke, laugh this off, it's kind of what you're best at by now! But the spaghetti's _smiling_ at you, a big noodle smile, with meatballs for eyes, and too much red sauce, and—and there's no joke here. This isn't funny, not even in the new, self-destructive way things have been funny lately.

"Did I do something wrong?" She looks from you to the plate she gave you and back again, frowning a little. "I followed the recipe to the letter, I'm sorry if—"

"Actually," you say, ruining everything, "it was Pap's favorite."

His name out loud is like a dam breaking.

And then, goddammit, the stupid spaghetti blurs all wet and distorted, and you duck your head and drag your hood down over your eyes, but you know it's too late. Because Tori makes a sharp, distressed sound, like someone watching a baby animal run out stupidly into traffic, and takes a few swift steps toward you.

And everything is falling apart when she puts her hand on your thin shoulder—the same way it does when you wake up in the dark of every early morning, and _forget_ , when you misplace that terrible pain somehow and find yourself listening for the sounds of your brother in the kitchen, when you have to _remember,_ all of it rushing back violent and unforgiving and brutal, the bright splash of red in the snow, the dust and torn scarf.

It never gets easier. It's never gonna get easier. It's gonna hurt like death, every day.

"It, uh… He would make it all the time, trying to get it right. He was like that, you know. Determined." This is going to be ugly. You realize that sort of distantly, like you've taken a step back and you're reviewing the notes. "Always trying to get it right."

You really should shut up. But you sit there, and stare at the spaghetti, and run your mouth—ruining those peaceful weeks in the ruins and all the lies you built up carefully to preserve Toriel's joy. Sure, it cost you. Pain has cut you to your knees, and all you want to do is never stand again; _anything_ besides that costs you these days. It hurt to make believe in a happy ending that didn't exist, but it was also a little less lonely, imagining Papyrus was away on some grand adventure.

Imagining he might come home someday.

"Oh, Sans."

Tori isn't stupid.

"Oh—Sans, I'm so—"

How long did you think you were gonna be able to do this?

She tries to put her arms around you, and you slip away. Instantly feeling colder, as you hide behind a permanent grin. There's so much love and care in Tori, despite everything she's lost, that you're not sure how she manages to move underneath it all. You're not sure _you_ could, if she tried to give even some of that love and care to you.

"Speakin' of which, you know, I bet he has a few cookbooks he wouldn't mind me lending you. There's some good stuff in there, stuff he never got to try. I'll, uh—I'll let you borrow those sometime."

You're leaving. That's what this is. The world's worst goodbye.

She's crying, you know it, and you're the absolute worst because you just keep leaving. Trample the bright red leaves, walking faster and faster until it's a dead sprint, ducking through shortcuts, glitching in and out so fast it makes you sick, shoving your way out of the ruins through that heavy door and into the snow, pushing like a maniac through the crowd in Snowdin, and then you're home.

The lights are out. You haven't paid the bills in awhile. The mailboxes are full. Someone shoveled for you in that way small town neighbors do, and you wonder if it was Undyne or Grillby or one of the Dogs, then you stop wondering. Unlock the door and go in. Close it behind you.

It's dark inside. You walk by memory through the living room, and sit on one end of the couch. Lay down.

Let days go by.


	2. Part 2

A/N: One chapter to go after this! Thanks for reading, everyone. (:

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 **2.**

Knocks on the door come and go. Your brother tore a hole in the world when he fell down, left a pit in all the lives he touched when he died, and all of Snowdin probably feels his absence as keenly as you do. Your neighbors are probably looking for closure, coming to you the way people always come together after tragedy, what other reason would they have to see you? If you were a better person, you would get open and open the door.

But you're not a very good person at all. Your brother was the only redeeming quality you had.

So you ignore the soft murmurs outside, you ignore the low whines as the Dogs give up again today and leave. You ignore all the knocks on your door the same way you ignore your phone every time it lights up or rings, and you swallow the silence like a bitter pill.

Another round of knocks, and you blink through the dark. They'll give up on you soon enough.

But then the lock turns, an audible click that you can hear across the room, and the door opens; light and cold air spill inside, along with a tall, armored figure and a cascade of red hair.

Oh. You sit up. She closes the door.

"Hey," she says. She's not wearing a crown, no royal decoration. She's running things now, but it's not a promotion she wanted. _Everyone_ loved the king, including Undyne. There's more than just one loss the Underground is suffering. Mourning is around every corner, as quiet and subtle as it might be in some places. There are shadows in Undyne's eyes you don't remember, and deep lines on her face where there should have been a toothed smile.

She looks like she doesn't know why she's standing in your living room. You can't help her out, there, because you don't have any clue, either. The two of you were never close. You saw a lot of her, though, all throughout your brother's teenage years; and even though she took Toriel's throne, you can't summon any anger.

Maybe she's here to collect a memento. People do that, right? You stand, and the room spins. You shake it off, and stuff your hands into your pockets. The winter chill she let inside clings to your bones.

"All of his stuff's up in his room," you say, trying to sound helpful. "You can take whatever you want."

Her eyes narrow at you, out of something that isn't anger, and you can't quite define the emotion that pulls her mouth down at the corners.

"When's the last time you ate?" she asks, a non-sequitur that draws you up short. She doesn't wait for an answer, striding toward the kitchen doorway and peering inside. It's dim, faint light filtering through from the frost-covered window, and Undyne doesn't look surprised when she looks back at you. Maybe disappointed. And that's okay, you're comfortable with that. "When's the last time you even came in here?"

You follow her up to the threshold and pause, the muted tiles a few scant inches from the toes of your sneakers. "Be careful," you tell her, because she's a couple steps ahead of you, and reaching like she'd open the fridge. "It's dusty."

She stops.

"He loved it in here," you add lamely, tracing his dust with your eyes where it lines stove burners and spatula handles. "I needed—a lot more of him."

Because your brother loved a lot, and fiercely, spreading his heart like a warm blanket over so much and so many that you couldn't hope to cover even half of what he loved with what was left of him. You did the best you could, and the car in his bedroom, and the action figures lined neatly along the table, and the book of bedtime stories on the shelf, are all powdered a fine gray, just like most of the kitchen is.

"Her majesty told me you left the ruins days ago," she says, moving too quickly for you to keep up. "Where have you been eating?"

Well, there's no real answer to that question, because you haven't been eating. You think of food, and you think of Tori's spaghetti with its wide smile and meatball eyes and too much red sauce, too much red in a white bed of snow, the scarf around your neck, _Papyrus—_

Her hand closes around your wrist, bright eyes snapping with something more wounded than fury, and she's dragging you out the door. You stumble after her, blinking through the bright afternoon sunlight. You thought it was evening. Her fingers might have left bruises if you had skin, but they're trembling, too, and you glance at her sidelong while she plows through the knee-high snow an arm's length ahead of you.

You don't know why she's here. She never liked you.

But she throws open the door at Grillby's like it did something to offend her personally, doesn't stop to apologize when it cracks against the wall. Then she's behind you, shoving you towards the bar. There are a few familiar faces that blur past, the jukebox is playing in the corner like it always does, and you climb up onto your usual stool for lack of better thing to do.

"Make sure he eats," Undyne says with iron in her voice, like it's an order she's giving one of her enlisted men, and she passes the bartender the spare key to your house. There's a lot wrong with that, you think. Grillby isn't hers to order around, that key isn't hers to give away. Grillby has better things to do. But he doesn't miss a beat; nods once, slips the key into the pocket of his waistcoat, and tension bleeds out of Undyne's shoulders like water.

Then her hand lands on your arm. Squeezes hard, but not hard enough to hurt. Like she's trying to leave a footprint in dry sand, an impression in something that fades. And then, just as suddenly as she showed up in the first place, she's gone.

Grillby pushes a plate in front of you. Someone takes a seat on your left, and a soft, furred head finds a home on your shoulder. It's warmer in here than it was outside, but you're still cold.


End file.
